Sacrificial Love
by KathyG
Summary: In this pre-Zorro story, based on the New Zorro series that aired on the Family Channel in the early 1990s, a very young Felipe still lives in Mexico with his mother and father, and de la Vega is a name he's never even heard. Can Felipe exhibit a spirit of self-sacrifice and prove his readiness for First Communion? And when his mother falls critically ill, can he save her life?


**SACRIFICIAL LOVE**

**by KathyG.**

In this pre-Zorro story, a very young Felipe still lives in Mexico with his mother and father, and de la Vega is a name he's never even heard. Can Felipe exhibit a spirit of self-sacrifice and prove his readiness for First Communion? And when his mother falls critically ill, can he save her life?

"Mommy!" With a glance at his father, Felipe Cortez dropped his hoe and raced toward the back yard. "Padre Pablo's comin'!" He wiped the rolling beads of sweat off his face.

The six-year-old boy's mother looked up from the outdoor waist loom she squatted in front of. One end of the loom was tied to a tree; the other end was tied around her waist. "Tell him I'm comin', son." She untied the loom from her waist as she spoke.

"_Sí,_ Mommy."

Felipe raced back toward the front yard, circling his mother's herb garden, and awaited the priest's arrival. As his cart approached, the kind priest waved at the boy. Felipe grinned and waved back. The early-afternoon sun shone on his back from a blue, cloudless sky.

Felipe and his parents lived on a small, two-acre tenant farm, located two miles from the _pueblo_ of San Miguel de Bajio, a village in central Mexico. His father, Juan, was a _peon_. During certain months of the year, Juan Cortez worked for a wealthy landowner, Don Esteban de la Curillo, laboring in his fields. The rest of the year, he worked in his own corn patch. The year was 1815, and summer was approaching. Felipe's seventh birthday was a month away. When the church cart entered the yard, Juan laid down his hoe and approached the priest.

"Whoa!" Padre Pablo ordered his _burro_. The donkey halted. "_Hola,_ Juan. _Hola,_ Felipe," the priest said, climbing down. His brown woolen habit got caught in the right wheel; Felipe yanked it loose. _"Gracias, amigo."_ Padre Pablo patted the boy's head. "Where's your mother?" He rubbed his side as he spoke.

"Mamá's at her loom. I'll get her."

"No need." Consuela Cortez appeared at the corner of the hut, adjusting the yellow woolen shawl she had draped around her shoulders. "_Hola, Padre._ Won't you come in?"

Inside the wattle-and-daub hut, Consuela removed her shawl and Juan removed his homemade, wide-brimmed, gray felt _sombrero_. The three adults squatted on reed mats arranged carefully on the hard-packed dirt floor. Juan crossed his legs, Indian-style. Consuela knelt on hers and brushed back her long brown hair with her hand.

As Felipe leaned against the rough, light-brown wall, he gazed around the one-room hut. Like the huts of the neighbors, it had no furniture. The roof consisted of straw thatch; rafters extended from wall to wall below the thick thatch. A firepit rested on the left corner across the hut from the doorway. Consuela's grinding stone lay near the firepit. Two rolled-up sleeping mats, made of reeds, leaned against the right wall. Sitting mats, also made of reeds, lay on the floor here and there.

A wooden chest stood against the back wall; a small crate that served as the family altar stood next to it. Consuela's rosary and crucifix lay on that altar. Reed baskets lined the wall on both sides of the crate and chest. The entrance had no door, only a reed hanging that Juan rolled up toward the straw-thatched roof during the day. Sunlight poured through the entrance, forming a rectangle of reflected light on the dirt floor.

Padre Pablo smiled at Felipe. "_Amigo,_ you're so far away. Come here and sit next to me." He patted the floor beside him.

Felipe plopped down next to the priest, who put his arm around the little boy's shoulders. Felipe crossed his legs as his parents had taught him. On the other side of Felipe, Juan slouched on his mat, legs crossed. The familiar smell of sweat and stink, born of hard work, reached Felipe's nose. Felipe knew that his own body smelled the same way. After a morning of hard work, it always did.

Padre Pablo smiled at him, and then turned to Juan. "How's the corn crop coming along?"

"Good." Juan shifted position. "Felipe and I have been weedin' it and weedin' it, all day, every day. The corn's grown tall enough, now, that it don't need that. We'll only need to weed it and water it in the mornin's." He wiped the perspiration off his forehead with the back of his hand.

Felipe grinned happily and wriggled. This meant that he would be free to play with his friend, Rafael Lopez, in the afternoons! Rafael had turned seven years old a month before, prior to Easter.

The priest chuckled at the little boy's joyful expression. "You're going to be seven years old, soon, aren't you?" Felipe nodded. The priest smiled at Juan and Consuela. Consuela smiled proudly; Juan shrugged.

The priest turned back to Felipe. "What have you learned, my boy?"

Felipe furrowed his eyebrows. "About God?" Padre Pablo nodded.

Felipe thought a moment. "Well, He created the world, right?" The priest nodded again. "And He sent Jesus to die for our sins, 'cause He don't want us to go to Hell. And He wants us to love him and love others, and obey Him." Padre Pablo nodded again.

Scratching his nose, Felipe leaned forward to gaze at the priest's rosary. "God is everywhere and sees everythin' we do. He wants us to be good. My guardian angel watches over me, right?"

"_Sí,_ Felipe. That's right." The _padre_ hugged Felipe to his side. "God loves you, and He wants you to love Him. And the best way to show your love for Him is to love other people." Felipe nodded. "You're almost ready for your first communion, Felipe."

Felipe rejoiced. He had long looked forward to that day, when he would be allowed to drink the wine and eat the special bread—the Host—with everyone else. "When?" He wriggled. "Soon?"

Padre Pablo chuckled. "Maybe. It depends on you, _amigo_." His expression turned serious. "You've learned to pray the rosary, and you've learned much about God and the faith, already. But you still have much to learn before you'll be ready for confirmation when you're twelve. And even before you can have your first communion, there's still one very important lesson you must learn."

He paused. "When you've learned this one lesson, Felipe, then you'll be ready for communion." He wagged his finger. "You must learn to sacrifice."

Felipe stared at him. "What?"

"You must learn to show your love for God and for others, by doing something that people don't naturally like to do. You must learn to give up something you like for the good of someone else, and to do something for someone else that you don't want to do. _And_ you _must_ learn to do those things without complaining or grumbling. That's sacrifice, Felipe, and in doing that, you will be more like Jesus. He showed His love for us by sacrificing His place in Heaven first, and then His earthly life." The priest fingered his beads as he spoke.

Felipe sat silently for a long moment, and frowned. He wasn't at all sure he _wanted_ to learn this lesson!

"An example of what I mean, Felipe, is this: suppose, at supper, you want an extra _tamale_ or _tortilla_. But you see that your father is hungry, and only one of you can have the extra _tamale_. To give him the _tamale_, my boy, instead of eating it yourself, would be an act of sacrifice." Felipe wrinkled his nose at the idea.

"And suppose you wanted to go out and play, but your mother needed someone to fetch her some ears of corn." Felipe nodded. "To go pluck those ears of corn for her, before playing, would be another example."

Felipe nodded again, wrinkling his nose a second time. He knew the priest was right, but it was so hard for him to accept. In his mind, this was the most awful lesson the priest had ever set for him to learn.

The priest smiled sympathetically. "It's not a very pleasant lesson to learn, I know." He hugged Felipe to his side, again. "But learn it, you must." He glanced at Juan and Consuela. "We _all_ must, you know." His gaze lingered on Juan for a moment. Juan pursed his lips and looked down at his dirty, callused hands. Felipe sensed that the priest wanted Juan to learn that lesson, too. Consuela had already learned it, but Juan never had; he always wanted things his own way.

The priest smiled at Consuela. "Felipe, your mother's a true Christian. Kind, devout, and good. She learned _her_ lessons about love and sacrifice a long time ago, and so did your godparents."

"_Gracias, Padre."_ Consuela smiled her appreciation of his praise.

The priest rose to his feet. "Well, I have others to go visit. I'll see you at church on Sunday." He smiled at each Cortez and made the sign of the cross on Felipe's forehead.

"_Vaya con Dios,"_ Consuela said. Padre Pablo's woven-leather sandals made no sound as he left the hut. Felipe scrambled to his feet and watched the priest climb into his cart and drive away.

Juan rose to his feet. "I'm goin' to town to get some _pulque_." Without saying another word, he walked out the doorway. Felipe leaned against the wall to watch him go. As always, Felipe felt a sense of relief to see his father leave the hut. His father had always frightened him.

Felipe stood in the doorway and watched his father stride toward town. He waited till his father had disappeared over the horizon, then raced outside. As he played in the front yard, throwing pebbles at trees and turning cartwheels, Rafael Lopez joined him, tossing his straw _sombrero_ into the air and catching it as he approached. Rafael, a seven-year-old orphan, lived with his aunt and uncle, Paco and Alicia Lopez. Paco was Felipe's godfather. Like Juan, he was a _peon_, and his farm lay just beyond the hill that divided the two farms. The two farmers worked side by side in Don Esteban's fields.

"Guess what!" Felipe dropped the pebble he had just picked up and smoothed his brown hair. "Papá says we don't have to work all day, 'cause the corn's getting' tall! You and me'll get to play after _siesta_, now!"

"_Sí!"_ Grinning, Rafael wiped beats of sweat off his cheeks. "_Our_ corn's high enough, too." He brushed his coal-black hair out of his brown eyes. Like Felipe, he had a wiry frame. A gentle breeze arose, brushing Felipe's cheeks as he listened.

"And that's not all." Felipe grinned back. "Padre Pablo says I'm almost ready for my first communion." He grimaced. "Soon as I learn to sacrifice, that is."

Rafael nodded, twirling his _sombrero_ by its string. The _padre_ had made him learn the same lesson prior to his first communion, a month before. "It'll be worth it, I promise. It's such fun to drink that wine, Felipe. Wait till you taste it! It's _so_ sweet!" He grinned. "And the bread is so soft and good—"

"Enough!" Felipe gagged, as envy filled his heart. "You're makin' me hungry!"

"—so nice and squishy!" Rafael grinned mischievously. "So white, so—"

Annoyed, Felipe picked up a piece of dirt and threw it at Rafael. Rafael picked up a twig and hurled it at Felipe, who ducked.

"Boys!" Consuela's stern voice stopped Felipe and Rafael in their tracks. "That's enough! Stop that, both of you! And Rafael, stop teasin' Felipe!"

Felipe nodded. "_Sí,_ Mommy."

"_Sí,_ Señora Cortez." Rafael sighed. He turned to Felipe. "Come on, let's play bullfighters!"

Felipe shook his head as he followed Rafael toward the back of the house. Rafael had forgotten, it seemed, that the wine and bread were nothing to tease about. _Padre Bernardo says they become the body and blood of Christ,_ he thought, as Rafael yanked off his _poncho_ and held it in from of him to form a bullfighter's cape.

For the next hour, the boys played outside in the yard. After they had played bullfighter, they played tag, then hide-and-seek. Suddenly, Rafael's uncle rushed into the yard. The boys froze and gaped at the stocky farmer. His brown eyes, normally merry, were filled with distress, and his dark-brown hair looked disheveled. "Where's your mother, Felipe?"

"I'm here." Consuela stepped outside. "Paco! What happened?"

"It's Juan!" Felipe's godfather leaned against a tree to catch his breath; his words came between gasps. Drops of sweat rolled down his forehead as he talked. "He—he's been arrested—for fightin'—in the _plaza_! The _alcalde_ said he was—disturbin' the peace."

Consuela froze. "Again." She sighed and shook her head.

Godfather Lopez nodded. "_Sí._ Again. He's goin' to be kept in jail for 6 weeks." He scratched his neck.

Consuela pursed her lips together. Felipe knew what she was thinking. This meant that she would have to work outside _and_ do her regular chores, as well as take care of her son. He inserted his index finger into his mouth and sucked it.

Paco approached Consuela and laid a hand on her shoulder. "Alicia and I'll help as much as we can," he said, gently. "You know that."

Consuela nodded. Smiling wanly, she said, "_Gracias._ I know you will."

As the boys listened, Felipe had mixed emotions. _I ought to feel bad,_ Felipe thought. _But I don't. Papá scares me. He hurts me._ Rafael shifted his weight from one leg to the other, and back again.

Godfather Lopez sighed. "Well, I've got to go. At least, it's afternoon, so you don't have to work in the corn patch no more today. I'll come tomorrow afternoon, to help you and Felipe weed the corn."

"Can I come with you, uncle?" Rafael twirled his _sombrero_ by the string.

"No, nephew." The man shook his head. "Your aunt'll need you. Come on, Rafael, it's time to go home." He smiled kindly at Felipe. "I'll see you tomorrow, _amigo_."

"_Adios,_ Godfather Lopez." Felipe hugged him. "You're goin' to the _fiesta_ next month, right?"

"I sure am!" Chuckling, Paco hugged him back and smiled down at him. "I wouldn't miss it for the world. Neither would this scapegrace." His eyes twinkled at Rafael, who grinned.

Felipe leaned against Paco. "_Por favor,_ when you come back, will you tell me a story?"

Paco smiled kindly. "I sure will." Felipe clapped his hands and jumped up and down. His godfather was a talented storyteller and musician. He played a mandolin.

As Felipe watched his godfather and best friend leave, he thought about the differences between his father and his godfather. Juan Cortez and Paco Lopez were as different as night and day. Juan was mean, boorish, irritable, and hot-tempered; Paco was kind, even-tempered, good, devout, and always happy. Felipe always went to his mother, godfather, or the priest when he had a problem, because he didn't dare go to his own father.

"I love Godfather Lopez," he whispered. "He's the nicest man in the whole world. Except for Padre Pablo." He smiled wryly. "Rafael sure is loud. And he gets into stuff. But he's nice. I'm glad he's my friend." He scratched his arm, then frowned as he thought of his father's arrest.

_What will it be like?_ Felipe wondered. _Papá bein' in jail? Me and Mommy bein' alone?_

It didn't take long to find out. Being alone, Felipe discovered, meant having to work all day instead of only in the mornings. It meant working alongside his mother in the corn patch for hours at a stretch, helping her with the housework, and doing the barn chores all by himself. The Lopezes could only help so much, because they had their own chores to do.

Felipe had to feed and groom the _burro_. He had to feed the goats and milk the she-goat. He had to chop wood for his mother and work in the corn patch all day, weeding and watering. At night, Consuela and Felipe would kneel before the family altar to pray, as they always did after supper. Consuela would pick up her rosary, and she and her son would take turns counting the beads as they prayed.

While the two of them prayed together, Felipe would examine his conscience, as his mother had taught him, to determine if he'd committed any sins that day that he needed to confess. If he thought of one, he would silently ask God's forgiveness, since he wasn't allowed, as yet, to confess to the _padre_; if not, he'd simply wrap his prayers up.

Sometimes, Felipe heard the same distant _boom!_ he had periodically heard ever since he could remember. At least once a week, he saw a group of soldiers marching in the distance, shouldering muskets. Such events reminded him that there was a revolution going on.

Neither Felipe nor his mother could eat much. In fact, many times, as they knelt on sitting mats to eat, Consuela would leave food on her plate so Felipe would have enough.

Felipe, for his part, resented the long hours he had to work. _It's not fair!_ he thought over and over, day after day. _It's so nice outside—no clouds, no rain, and it feels good. It's a great day to play outside, but I have to work all day! Soon, it'll be rainin' every day, and then I'll have to stay in a lot!_

If it hadn't been for his godfather, Felipe felt sure, he wouldn't have been able to endure it. On the days the Lopezes came to help, Paco would sing as he worked and inspire everyone else to sing with him. In between songs, he would tell stories. When the workday was over, Paco's wife Alicia would bring Rafael to visit. Paco would tell the boys a story, then he would play lively _fiesta_ songs and solemn church hymns on his mandolin. The music, singing, and storytelling always cheered Felipe up.

On Saturdays, the two families went to confession together; on Sundays, they attended church together. And on Sunday evenings, they went back to town, to socialize with others. Whether they went to confession or participated in the Eucharist during Mass, Felipe felt left out. While everyone else took their turns entering the tiny cubicle to confess their sins and receive absolution, Felipe, who found it boring to stand inside and wait, would amble outside and roam the _plaza_ with the other young children. When it was time to have communion during Mass, Felipe would remain standing in his place in the back of the nave—the big room where the congregation worshipped, during Mass—and pray silently, as his mother told him to do. While he was praying, his mother and the Lopezes would approach the front, one at a time, to eat the Host and drink the wine. Even Rafael got to participate now, and that made it worse. Being left out grated on Felipe.

_How much longer?_ he would wonder, thrusting out his lower lip in resentment. _When can I have communion, too?_

One morning, he scowled as he grasped his ax to chop some wood for the firepit. _It's not fair!_ he thought resentfully, as he chopped. _I was gonna get to play all afternoon; instead, I have to work all day!_ He scowled and wiped his face.

He swung the ax over his head. "I've been workin' and workin' all spring," he grumbled. "I was lookin' forward to the corn bein' all ready, so I could play with Rafael every day." He paused to wipe the sweat off his face again.

When he had finished the job, he threw the ax down and trudged inside, scowling. "I'm done, Mommy." He sighed.

Consuela nodded. She looked as weary as he felt. She brushed back her long, brown hair with her hand and shifted position. She was kneeling in front of the grinding stone, grinding kernels of limewater-soaked corn. Beads of sweat rolled down her face. A dark, jagged circle, caused by sweat, spanned the front of her dress. The sweaty stink of hard work emanated from her body, reaching Felipe's nostrils.

"It's hard, I know." She sighed. "On me, as well as you. We just have to do the best we can, Felipe." She smiled. "You're a good boy, my son. I can always count on you." She patted his cheek with her rough, callused, yet gentle, right hand.

Guilt welled up in Felipe. He hadn't been good, not really. Ever since his father had been arrested, he'd been complaining and grumbling inside.

The priest's words came back to him. _He said I must learn to do somethin' I don't want to do, and give up stuff I want to do._ Felipe grimaced. _I'm bein' made to do both, aren't I? And I'm not bein' very good about it, either!_

He sighed. _I'll try to do it like the priest said. It won't be easy, but I'll try. If I don't, I won't get to have my first communion._ He bowed his head. _Please, God, help me to want to help my mamá, and help me not to complain. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, amen._ He made the sign of the cross.

Sighing, he trudged back outside to weed and water the corn patch. _At least, I've got the_ fiesta _to look forward to. The _fiesta_'ll be fun._

As Felipe hoed weeds, he thought about the fun he and Rafael had had at the last _fiesta_…the bullfight they had attended…the lively music and dancing...the _tamales_ they'd bought from a vendor to eat. He loved _fiestas_. They always provided a marvelous opportunity to escape the tedium and drudgery that filled his family's days.

The next day was his seventh birthday. "Happy birthday, _hijo_." Consuela smiled, as he stretched, yawned, and stood up. "How's my seven-year-old son, today?"

Felipe grinned. "Fine." He rolled up his sleeping mat and leaned it against the wall, then went outside to do the barn chores.

When he lugged the pail of milk and several sticks of wood to the hut, the smell of _tortillas_ and cornmeal mush wafted to his nostrils. "Felipe, the leftover corn's runnin' low." Consuela shook her head.

"Can't we pick some?" Felipe set the pail on the floor against the wall and arranged the firewood in the firepit.

His mother shook her head. "The corn out there is too green to eat, yet. We'll just have to start savin' the corn until your father comes home. You're old enough, now, to eat just twice a day, like your papá and me." She brushed back her hair as she spoke.

"Is that why you don't finish eatin' your food?" Felipe's mother nodded. "To give to me?"

"_Sí."_

Felipe felt guilty. His mother had been sacrificing her meals for his sake. And she had never grumbled about it, either. Silently, he renewed his resolve to help her all he could, without complaining. For a moment, he leaned against the wall and sucked his index finger. Felipe had stopped sucking his thumb at age five, only to take up sucking his index finger instead, whenever he was scared or nervous.

When breakfast was ready, Felipe squatted on a sitting mat and crossed his legs. The two bowed their heads as Consuela asked the blessing. "Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty through Christ our Lord," she prayed. "In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, amen." Felipe made the sign of the cross and looked up.

His mother dipped some cornmeal mush into a clay bowl, and handed it and a _tortilla_ to Felipe. She poured some goat's milk from a clay pitcher into one of the clay cups and handed the cup to her son. Custom dictated that Consuela wait until the men in her family had eaten before she, herself, had her share.

Felipe scooped some mush onto his _tortilla_; he inserted it into his mouth. He then took a swallow of goat's milk. When Felipe had drunk his milk, and eaten the mush and the _tortilla_, his mother ate. Her share of mush was considerably smaller than his, he noticed. Suddenly, he wished he'd left a portion of his own mush for her.

After breakfast, Felipe and his mother bowed their heads again. This time, Felipe prayed out loud. "We give Thee thanks, Almighty God, for these and all Thy gifts, which we have received from Thy bounty through Christ our Lord. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, amen." He made the sign of the cross again, and looked up.

The boy followed his mother out to the corn patch. The early-morning air felt cool and fresh. An hour after they had started working, the priest pulled up in his cart.

"_Buenos dias,_ Consuela. Felipe." He climbed out of the cart. "I know you're busy, so I won't keep you long."

He reached into the cart, picked up two big bundles and a smaller one, and laid them on the ground. "I've brought you some corn, beans, and _chili_ peppers, Consuela," he said. "These'll tide you over until your husband's released from jail."

"_Gracias, Padre."_ Consuela smiled gratefully. "We _were_ getting' low."

"I suspected as much." The priest nodded and rubbed his side. His eyes twinkled as he glanced at Felipe. "I hear you're seven years old now, _amigo_. Congratulations!"

Felipe smiled. "Today's my birthday, _Padre_."

"_Sí, sí,_ I know; June 1st, isn't it?" Felipe nodded. Smiling, the priest fingered his beads. "Happy birthday, _muchacho_. You're doing a fine job and learning a lot. Keep on doing as you're doing, and you'll surely be ready for communion, soon." Felipe smiled back.

The priest patted the boy's shoulder. "I must go. _Adios._" He climbed in his cart and gathered the reins.

"_Adios."_ Consuela waved as the priest left. _"Vaya con Dios."_

When the priest's _carreta_ disappeared from sight, she sighed. "God bless that dear man," she said. "Padre Pablo is such a holy man, a man of God. A truly good man." Felipe nodded agreement.

"Mommy, how much longer till the _fiesta_?" he asked, as he helped her carry in the bundles.

"A week." Consuela smiled. "I'm lookin' forward to it, too, son." Felipe grinned as he laid his bundle in the corner, near the fire pit.

_It's been weeks and weeks since Papá went to jail,_ Felipe thought. Out loud, he asked, "Mommy, how long has Papá been in jail?"

"Four weeks." Conseula pursed her lips. "They'll be lettin' him out in two weeks." She bent over to set her load on the floor near the firepit.

Felipe dumped his share of corn on the hard-packed dirt floor. "Will this be enough?"

"Yes." Consuela kissed his forehead.

Felipe smiled. It wouldn't have been the first time they ran short, nor would it be the last. Several times, in Felipe's seven years, the family had lost the corn crop. When that happened, they went hungry. At least, thanks to the _padre_, that wouldn't happen, this time.

Felipe remembered the day when he was four, when his father had lost his corn crop…

_Juan entered the hut, grumbling. "I've got to replant the whole corn patch!" He glared at his wife as he spoke._

_Felipe crouched in the corner, not daring to move or make a sound lest he inadvertently provoke his father into a violent outburst. He gazed fearfully up at his angry father, who stood with clenched fists, pursing his lips and shaking his head. Would his father strike him?_

"_Consuela, you and Felipe'll have to help me." Juan looked sternly at his son for an instant, then turned back to his wife. "Time's too short. I can't do it alone."_

_Consuela nodded. "_Sí. _We will."_

"Sí, _Papá." Felipe scratched his arm…_

The family had worked together to replant the corn, Felipe recalled, as he followed his mother back to the corn patch. It had taken days of backbreaking labor to finish the job. He grimaced at the memory as he picked up his hoe.

For the next week, Felipe worked all hours every day, but with a difference. He really tried not to complain inside, and he succeeded. More and more, he found himself hoping he could be a real help to his mother. Consuela, he noticed, had lost weight in the last month, and was always tired. Even with the new supply of corn and beans, she always left food for her son. Felipe, in turn, left portions of his food for her, but it wasn't enough.

The Lopezes noticed the difference. "I'm worried about you, Consuela," Paco told her, two days before the _fiesta_, as they rested in the hut. He leaned against the wall and gazed at her worriedly. "You've been workin' too hard and eatin' too little. You need to ease up and eat more."

Felipe and Rafael crouched against the wall and gazed at Felipe's mother. Her brown eyes looked too big in her thin face. Her cheekbones jutted out, and her hair hung disheveled. As did the Lopezes, she smelled of stink. Sweat stains covered the front of her dress.

A weary smile crept across Consuela's face. "Someone has to do the work, Paco. Juan's not here to do it. As for the food, Felipe needs it more than I do. He's only seven, you know." She shifted position on her sitting mat.

Paco nodded. "_Sí, sí._ I _do_ know. But it's too much for one woman to do alone. And you got to keep up your strength." He paused. "I've got to work for the _padre_ for the next several days; he needs men to help him get ready for the _fiesta_. Maybe he'll be able to help you, Consuela. Alicia and I won't be able to."

"The _fiesta's_ just two days away, Paco." Consuela poured him a cup of goat's milk, and another for Alicia. "Surely, it won't be that bad." She handed the couple the clay cups.

"He needs Paco to work for him all through the _fiesta_," Alicia said. "Playin' music, tellin' stories. And after, he wants me and Paco to help clean up." She glanced at her husband as she spoke, and then took a swallow. Paco followed suit.

After the Lopezes left, Consuela leaned against the wall and frowned. Felipe knew what she was thinking. Without the Lopezes' assistance, she and Felipe would really be on their own. Felipe made up his mind to help her as much as he could without resentment. He inserted his index finger into his mouth and sucked it for a long moment.

The next morning, a groan woke Felipe out of a sound sleep. For a moment, the sleepy boy just lay curled on his side, not wanting to get up.

His mother groaned. "Mommy?" With a yawn, Felipe rubbed his eyes and raised himself to a sitting position.

His mother lay writhing on her sleeping mat. "Felipe." Her voice sounded feeble.

Felipe scrambled to his feet and hurried toward her. He knelt beside his mother and touched her arm. "Mommy?" Felipe's voice squeaked. "Are you all right?"

His mother shook her head. "I can't get up, my son. I'm sick."

Felipe touched her forehead. It felt hot. Fear churned in his stomach. To have his mother sick and unable to take care of him was frightening. His mother groaned again.

"Does it hurt?" Felipe's voice shook.

Consuela nodded. "A little."

Felipe squatted there, trying to decide what to do. Since the Lopezes were helping the _padre_ in town, he could not go to their farm to ask their help. And he was afraid to leave his mother to walk the two miles to town.

Felipe sighed. He would just have to stay there and take care of her himself. Maybe, she would soon be feeling better. _Please, God, make my mamá well,_ he prayed silently.

As he rose to his feet, a horrible thought struck him. If she were still sick the next day, he would have to stay home. Felipe knew that the odds were he wouldn't be able to go to the _fiesta_, now. That prospect upset him. He had so looked forward to going! At the same time, he worried about his mother. She was his security, his love. She just _had_ to get well! "I'll take care of you, Mommy," he promised.

Consuela smiled wanly. "I know you will."

For the rest of the day, Consuela rested on her mat while Felipe worked. After doing the barn chores, Felipe picked up a burning ember and used it to start a fire in the firepit. When the fire blazed, he tried his hardest to cook into mush the corn his mother had ground the day before. Fortunately, there was enough to cook two meals for the two of them. He fed his mother, and then ate his own serving of mush.

That afternoon, he weeded the corn patch and herb garden all by himself. It was hard work for a seven-year-old boy to do, but he did his best. He went back and forth to see to it that the fire stayed lit. When he finished, he chopped some wood for the firepit, then lugged some of the wood into the hut and arranged it in the firepit.

That evening, he took the remaining cornmeal and made two thick, rough _tortillas_. Before they ate, Felipe asked the blessing. He ate one, and at his insistence, his mother ate the other. As she obediently bit off chunks of the _tortilla_, reflections from the blazing fire danced on the opposite wall. Smoke curled upward and drifted out the doorway.

Felipe's mother smiled at him affectionately. "You're a good boy, Felipe. I can always count on you." Felipe smiled back as he swallowed. The words of praise cheered and comforted him.

"Mommy—" Felipe paused. "Think you'll be able to go to the _fiesta_, tomorrow?"

Consuela paused. "I don't think so, my son." She winced as a spasm of pain took hold of her. "It don't look like it." She writhed.

Felipe sighed. A spasm of disappointment welled up in his stomach. He tried to smile, but couldn't. His mother squeezed his hand. "I am sorry, _hijo_," she said, gently. "I _would_ take you there if I could."

Felipe nodded. "_S—sí,_ Mommy."

Consuela squeezed his hand again. "Time for prayers, my son."

Felipe bowed his head. "We give Thee thanks, O Lord, for these and all Thy gifts, which we have received from Thy bounty through Christ our Lord. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, amen."

He made the sign of the cross and rose to his feet. He approached the family altar, grasped the rosary, and took it to his mother. As he knelt by her side, mother and son prayed with it as always, taking turns counting the decades. When they finished, Felipe laid the rosary back on the altar.

"Bedtime, Felipe."

Nodding, Felipe approached her and kissed her goodnight. He trudged toward his own sleeping mat. He unrolled it, and knelt to say his bedtime prayers. When he finished, he lay down and curled on his side, sucking his index finger.

When he woke up the next morning, he immediately remembered that it was the first day of the _fiesta_. Misery and resentment welled up in him as he sleepily rubbed his eyes. Everything was so unfair! First, his father had been arrested, thus robbing Felipe of the afternoons of play he had expected to have. Now, this! He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his cheek against the reed mat.

"Juan?" Consuela's voice broke his musings. He opened his eyes and raised his head. She writhed nonstop. "Juan, _por favor_, I need some wood. Please, bring some. Felipe, you need to milk the she-goat."

Felipe gaped at her as she lay on her back, turning her head back and forth. "Felipe, bring me some water, son."

"I will." Felipe jumped to his feet. "I will, Mommy."

He picked up the clay water jug and carried it out to the gurgling stream. When he had filled the jug, he carried it inside. He poured some into a cup and carried the cup to his mother. "Here's some water, Mommy."

His mother did not open her eyes. Felipe raised her head and held the cup to her lips. When she had drained the cup's contents, Felipe laid her head down.

"Felipe, your father will be home any minute. It's time to gather some wood, son." His mother's voice sounded feeble.

Fear gripped Felipe's heart. This didn't sound right. "Mommy—" His voice broke. "Papá's in jail, remember? Today's the first day of the _fiesta_, remember, and Papá's in jail!"

"Your papá will be home in a minute, Felipe." Consuela's eyes opened, but they looked strangely blank. "He'll be angry if the chores aren't done."

"Mommy?!" Felipe shook her arm; her skin felt burning hot. "_Mommy!_ Wake up, Mommy!" A sob welled up in his throat. His mother was out of her head with fever. "Please, God, make my mamá well! Please make her know me!"

Felipe rested his head on her stomach and sobbed. His mother was dangerously ill, he knew. She might die. If he lost her, he would lose the security she brought him and be at the mercy of his father. Over and over, he begged God to spare her, until the booming of distant cannonfire jolted him.

_What does Mommy do when _I'm_ real bad sick?_ he wondered. _I know! She puts a wet cloth on my forehead._

He snatched a piece of cloth, raced outside, squeezed it in the stream, then darted back inside. He bathed his mother's face and laid the dripping wet cloth on her forehead. He then made the burning embers start a new fire.

For the rest of the day and all the next day, Felipe hovered over his mother and neglected almost everything else. He didn't even weed the garden or chop wood. He only fed the animals, milked the she-goat, and kept the fire going. Since he lacked the strength and the skills to soak and grind corn, he didn't even try. He went without food, himself, and gave the milk to his mother. All the while, the distant cannonfire stopped only at night. Each time Felipe heard the booms, he made the sign of the cross.

His mother never regained full consciousness. Over and over, she kept writhing and talking in her delirious state. Felipe's efforts to bring her fever down and bring her back to reality failed consistently.

He forced water and milk down his mother's throat. He soaked the cloth in the stream again and again, and bathed her face. He sang to her the songs she had always sung to him when he was sick. All the while, he prayed for her recovery. All thoughts of attending the _fiesta_ had been driven out of his mind. His only concern, now, was for his mother.

_Please, God,_ he begged, _make my mommy well. I'm just a little boy; I can't take good care of her! Please, don't let her die! Please make her well._

On the third morning after his mother had become delirious, Felipe woke up, feeling weak and hungry. His stomach growled. He had gone without food for two days, now. He could not go on like this much longer. Wearily, he went outside to do the barn chores. This time, he paid no attention to the distant cannonfire.

When he had finished, he brought in the pail of milk and gave some to his delirious mother. He then crouched against the wall and rested his head in his hands. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead; the weary boy reached up to wipe them off.

_What can I do?_ Felipe wondered. _I need help; I need it, fast! But I can't leave Mommy, or she'll die! How can I get help?_

Suddenly, he remembered a story his godfather Lopez had once told him about a time when he had been lost, long before. To attract the attention of rescuers, Paco had made a signal fire.

_That's what I'll do!_ the little boy thought. _I'll make a fire!_

He raced outside to the woodpile; luckily, there was still some wood left. He lugged some of it toward the front of the hut, beside the corn patch. He arranged it in a pile and pulled up the grass surrounding it. Then, he raced inside to fetch a burning ember. Using two sticks to pick it up, he carefully carried the ember outside and laid it on the pieces of wood. Within minutes, it blazed.

Thick smoke curled upward, drifting toward the sky. Gray clouds formed a wall east of the farm. The air felt hot and humid. Beads of sweat rolled down the little boy's face.

_Will it work?_ Felipe wondered. _Will someone see it?_

He sighed and wiped his face. He was so exhausted! He didn't know how much longer he could work so hard. He lay curled on his side for the next several minutes, watching the fire. As the little boy silently prayed yet again, begging God to spare his mother's life, he suddenly felt a Presence he had never felt before. The Presence covered him and infused his soul. Along with the Presence came a sensation of inexpressible joy and comfort he had never felt even in his happiest moments.

_This is God!_ Felipe thought, awestruck. _This must be God! He's right here with me! Gracias de Dios!_ He made the sign of the cross.

Gradually, the Presence dissipated. When Felipe rose to his feet, he felt comforted and strengthened.

For the next two hours, he trudged back and forth from the woodpile to keep the fire going, and from the fire to the house to take care of his mother. Only the memory of the Presence kept him going.

With each trip, he became more and more tired. He could no longer run; it took all his strength just to walk slowly. He prayed constantly for help.

At last, he could not even walk. He was just too tired and sore; every muscle ached. On top of that, the wood was almost gone. He had used the last of the sticks to feed the fire.

_When it burns out, I won't be able to start it again,_ he thought, as he plopped on the ground and lay curled on his side. _What am I goin' to do?_ Tears streaked his face as he sprawled there, staring at the fire. He wiggled on his back and stared up at the sky. The sun had disappeared; the gray clouds had spread from horizon to horizon without his noticing.

_It's goin' to rain,_ he thought, miserably. _It's gonna rain my fire right out! Then what'll I do?_ The little boy rested his face on his arms and wept convulsively.

"Felipe?!" A familiar voice startled him from behind his head. "Are you all right, _muchacho_? Where is your mother?"

Felipe scrambled to his feet and whirled around. It was the priest. He had been sobbing so loudly, he had failed to hear the rattle and squeak of the priest's _carreta_.

Padre Pablo climbed down from his cart and patted his _burro's_ withers, concern etched on his face.

"Mommy's sick." Felipe snuffled. "She's real sick! I think she's dyin'!"

"How long has she been sick?" The priest threw handfuls of dirt on the fire to put it out, then strode toward the hut.

"Three days." Felipe trotted after the priest as they entered the hut.

The priest knelt beside Consuela and felt her forehead. He turned to Felipe. "She is indeed gravely ill. But I'm here, now, and I'm going to stay here and take care of you both." He felt Felipe's forehead. "Unless you have something to eat soon, you're going to become sick, too. Lie down on your sleeping mat, Felipe, and get some rest. As soon as I've unhitched my _burro_ and stabled it with yours, I'll make you and your mother something to eat."

"_Sí, Padre."_

A louder-than-usual cannonblast startled Felipe, making him jump. The priest patted his shoulder. "There's a battle going on south of here, son. _Miles_ south. We're in no danger here."

Felipe nodded. "When will they stop shootin'?"

"When the battle's over."

Felipe shivered. "Will this re—_rev_—"

"Revolution." The _padre_ fingered his beads as he spoke.

"Will this revolution ever, ever, _ever_ be over?"

Padre Pablo put an arm around the boy's shoulder. "_Sí,_ Felipe, someday. Now be a good boy and lie down on your sleeping mat, all right?"

Felipe nodded, comforted. _Thank You, God,_ he silently prayed, as he unrolled his sleeping mat. He lay down, curled on his side, and instantly fell asleep.

When the little boy woke up, Padre Pablo was praying, Felipe could tell. His soft words had that special rhythm his mother's did when she prayed the rosary. But the priest was bent over his mother and not over his beads. There was the sweet smell of oil and Felipe noticed a small pot near the _padre_, his fingers dipping into the pot and touching his mother's forehead with the oil. The sweet oil smell sickened Felipe's already weak stomach, as fear welled up in his heart. Was his mother dying?

Smoke drifted out the door. Outside, rain drummed the ground, and the air felt cooler and fresher. Pulling himself up into a sitting position, Felipe sat cross-legged against the wattle-and-daub wall across the room and watched until the priest had finished. _Please, God, let her live!_ he begged, crossing his chest.

Padre Pablo rose to his feet. Glancing at Felipe, he heated some cornmeal mush over the fire pit and told Felipe to eat. Sitting cross-legged on a sitting mat, the boy asked the blessing, then gobbled the mush and ate the _tortilla_ in three bites. He gulped his milk down as fast as he could, while keeping a fearful eye on his unconscious mother.

"Last time I ate was two days ago," the little boy explained, as he set his cup down. "I've been givin' Mommy all the milk."

Padre Pablo nodded and rubbed his side. "I suspected as much."

Felipe bowed his head. "I give Thee thanks, Almighty God, for these and all Thy gifts, which I have received from Thy bounty through Christ my Lord. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, amen." He made the sign of the cross and gazed at his sleeping mother. "And _por favor_, God, make my mommy well. Please don't let her die. Amen."

"Amen." The priest blessed himself, and Felipe followed suit.

Felipe looked at the _padre_. "Why did you give Mamá last rites? Is she dyin'?" He jumped as a loud crack of thunder followed a flash of lightning.

The priest looked serious for a moment. He then lumbered toward Felipe and sat down next to him. "Your mother is very sick, Felipe," he said, gently, as he put his wool-clad arm around Felipe's shoulder. "She may die, yes. But I don't _know_ that she will; if our prayers are answered, she will get well. I gave her last rites just as a precaution, and I prayed for her recovery." He fingered his beads with his left hand as he spoke.

"I've been prayin' and prayin." Felipe snuggled next to the priest. "I don't want her to die. I don't!"

"Well, you know, Felipe," the priest said, as he squeezed Felipe against his side, "I don't want her to, either! So we'll just have to pray that she won't."

For the next 30 minutes, Felipe sat next to his mother. As he stared at her, the rain stopped. His mother never stirred.

Padre Pablo laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Felipe, she needs more care than you and I can give her by ourselves." He brushed the boy's brown hair out of his eyes. "It's stopped raining, so while I look after your mother, you go to town and fetch the Lopezes, all right? Your godfather Lopez is working in the _plaza_, and his wife and son are nearby."

Felipe nodded and leaped to his feet. At the priest's insistence, he put on his brown woolen _poncho_ and his wide-brimmed straw _sombrero_. He raced outside and darted toward town. He stopped periodically to catch his breath, then resumed running.

To his relief, the rain had stopped, and the clouds had cleared away. The sun had begun its slow descent in the west; it was late afternoon. The distant cannonfire still boomed.

Beads of sweat rolled down Felipe's forehead, so he pushed his _sombrero_ off his head. Dangling by its string, it bounced off his upper back nonstop as he ran.

When he reached town, it was crowded. People milled around everywhere; some musicians played gay _fiesta_ songs. The scents of _tamales_ and other snacks wafted toward Felipe's nostrils. Felipe didn't stop to admire the sights and sounds of the _fiesta_, though. He was too intent on looking for his godfather.

"Godfather Lopez!" he shouted. "Godfather Lopez!" He pulled the string of his _sombrero_ as he scanned the _plaza_.

No answer. Felipe felt frantic. He just _had_ to find his godfather, fast! He still had two more _plazas_ to search.

He entered the next _plaza_, where the church was located. He scanned the crowds of people. "Godfather Lopez!" Felipe shouted, again.

"Here, Felipe!"

Felipe saw Paco leaning against the wall of the church, playing his mandolin, and rushed toward him. "Godfather Lopez!" The little boy's _sombrero_ bumped against his upper back as he broke out into a run.

"What is it?" The man grabbed Felipe's shoulders as Felipe reached him. "What's wrong, _amigo_?"

"Mommy's sick!" Felipe gasped for breath. "She's real, _real_ sick! She might die! Padre Pablo's with her!" He wiped the sweat off his face.

Paco Lopez froze and gaped at Felipe, white-faced. "Alicia! Rafael!" he shouted.

His wife and nephew joined him. "We've got to get to Felipe's hut, fast," he said. "Consuela's sick. The _padre's_ with her." He lifted Felipe up in his arms as he spoke. The smell of his godfather's perspiration comforted Felipe. Paco and Alicia were going to help his mother; everything was going to be all right.

Half an hour later, back at the Cortez farm, Felipe and the Lopezes gathered around Consuela, still delirious. The _padre_ looked grave.

"I think she's reached the crisis point," he explained. "Before morning, either her fever will break, or she will die. Only the Lord in Heaven knows which way it will go."

Felipe stifled a sob. Paco hugged the boy to his side. "We will pray for her recovery, Felipe." He kissed the boy's head. "And take good care of her."

"Felipe's been doing a fine job of that, for the last three days." The priest smiled. "And his idea of making a signal fire was quite resourceful. It got my attention while I was making my rounds." Felipe smiled wanly.

With a sigh, Paco scratched his neck. "I told her she was workin' too hard and eatin' too little."

"Going without food, so Felipe would have enough?" Padre Pablo asked. Paco nodded. "I thought so."

The sun set, an hour later, and the distant cannonfire stopped. Well into the night, Felipe and Rafael stayed up with the others. Consuela kept talking in her delirium. Señora Lopez stayed by her side, bathing her face repeatedly and feeding her mush and milk.

Paco looked after the boys and tried to comfort them, especially Felipe. He told the boys story after story, and sang hymns as he sat cross-legged on a sitting mat and played his mandolin. Felipe sat still and listened, but Rafael wiggled and fidgeted nonstop.

Sleep finally overcame Felipe. When he woke up, the sun had just risen. The sky looked orange. The grown-ups were gathered around Consuela. None of them said a word. Rafael lay asleep on the mat next to Felipe. Felipe, for his part, lay curled on his side, not daring to make a sound.

Felipe swallowed hard. Was his mother dead? Or was she going to get well?

He shook Rafael awake. As Rafael yawned and stretched, Felipe rose to his feet and softly approached the assembled group. Felipe's godfather turned to him, beaming with joy. "Her fever broke just before the sun rose. She's goin' to live!"

Joy surged in Felipe's heart. He had to remember hard that his mother needed peace and quiet, so she could sleep, or he would have jumped and shouted with joy. _Thank You, God!_ he prayed, silently, wriggling. _Gracias de Dios!_

He squatted down next to his godfather. Rafael joined them a minute later. As Rafael crouched on the other side of his uncle, Consuela's brown eyes fluttered open, and she smiled at the group.

"Mommy?" Felipe swallowed hard. "Mommy?" His voice squeaked.

"I'm here, my son." Consuela smiled warmly. "And if the Lord's willin', I'm goin' to stay here."

Felipe couldn't help it; a sob rose from his throat despite his efforts to swallow it. He leaned over his mother and pressed his soft cheek against hers. His mother patted his arm.

"There, there." Consuela's gentle voice soothed him. "Don't cry, Felipe; I'm not goin' to die. Not now."

Felipe nodded. He buried his face in his godfather's chest for a long moment, as Paco hugged him tightly. When he leaned back, tears streaked the little boy's face. Suddenly, he froze. "Listen!"

Everyone paused. "What do you hear, Felipe?" Paco asked.

"Listen—there's no shootin'!"

Paco smiled joyfully. "_Gracias de Dios!_ The battle's over!" He ruffled his godson's hair and patted Consuela's arm. "And so's yours." He made the sign of the cross.

The priest squeezed Felipe's shoulder. "Poor boy, this has been a long, hard ordeal for you and your mother, hasn't it? A battle, as your godfather just said. But the worst is behind you, now." Felipe nodded.

The _padre_ turned to the little boy's godfather. "Paco, I'm goin' to let you and Alicia go. Consuela and Felipe need you more than the _fiesta_ does."

Paco nodded. "_Sí._ They do, _Padre_. _Gracias._"

Padre Pablo turned back to Felipe. "Hard as these last weeks have been—and especially the last few days—they've taught you the lesson I told you you'd have to learn before you could receive your first communion. You've given up a great deal for your mother—your playtime, the _fiesta_, etc. Even your food. In other words, _muchacho,_ you've learned what it means to love sacrificially." He smiled tenderly at the boy as he fingered his beads. "You're ready for your first communion now, Felipe. I'll schedule it, just as soon as your mother's well. We'll hold it when your father's out of jail."

Felipe smiled broadly. _"Gracias,"_ he whispered. "That'll be wonderful!"

His mother smiled proudly. "You deserve it, son," she said feebly. "You've worked so hard and given up so much. And you've taken such good care of me, these last few days."

"You certainly have." The priest smiled at Felipe proudly. "And as a reward for your excellent care of your mother, I am going to take you and Rafael to the fiesta tomorrow!" Felipe and Rafael cheered.

Two weeks later, Felipe made his first confession. As he knelt in the tiny cubicle where the priest heard confessions, the boy confessed his sins and received absolution. The morning after that, Felipe joyfully partook of communion for the first time. The whole family attended Mass, including Juan, who had been released from jail a few days before. So did the Lopezes.

"Now, _I_ get to eat some of that Host and wine!" He grinned at Rafael, as the two families entered the church. He had looked forward to this day for so long! On top of his boyish excitement, Felipe felt God's presence infusing him again. The otherworldly joy and comfort had entered him at dawn and infused his spirit all morning. Even his father seemed to feel happier than usual; he hadn't scolded or struck his wife or son once.

When the moment finally came, Felipe couldn't keep his feet still. For once, he was as fidgety as Rafael. In a minute, he was going to walk to the front of the room, in front of everybody, and partake of the Eucharist for the first time. And starting the next weekend, he was going to attend catechism class on a weekly basis, to get ready for confirmation.

The wine, especially, tasted sweet and delicious. To celebrate, the women made bean _tamales_ back at the Cortez farm, and the two families ate together.

"Well, Felipe, you did it." Consuela smiled at her son proudly. "I'm so proud of you, son!" Felipe grinned happily and wiggled.

"So am I, _amigo_." Paco drew the boy next to him in a hugging motion. "Startin' next Saturday, you'll be goin' to catechism class once a week with Rafael." Paco swallowed some milk and set his cup on the dirt floor. "To learn all about the faith. The priest will teach you everythin' you need to know, to be a good Christian." He smiled proudly at his godson.

Felipe nodded; he already knew that. When he had graduated from catechism class, years later, he would be confirmed. Then he would be a full-fledged member of the Catholic Church, along with his parents, for the rest of his life. Silently, he resolved to be good, and to never displease God if he could help it. He silently prayed that the revolution would soon be over. He reached for a second _tamale_ and bit into it.

**©1999 by KathyG.**


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